Sexuality, femininity. Sex. Who owns it? Is it still mine if I bat my eyelashes at you and you buy me a drink? Or have you put me in my place, letting me know I'm only as good as the clarity of my skin and the tightness of my ass? Who's playing whom here?

I'd like to think I own it. It's a power you gave to me, not knowing I would figure out how to make you succumb to it. My sexuality is such a driving force in my life and it's so part of who I am. It's so out there. I don't bitch when it's all that gets responded to. After all, I'm the one who put it out there. And I'm not always proud of that, but I feel naked without it and come just alive when it's on.

Perhaps it's a generalization, but here goes anyhow: Men's hormones are so easily persuaded -so triggered by the senses. Because of my size I get noticed when I walk in a room. Ten years of dance left me with good posture - no slumping of the shoulders, no embarrassment that I tower over most of the women and plenty of the men. I see their heads turn, I feel their stares.

When I catch their gaze follow my zig zag path to the bar, when I find a guy who is instantly attracted to me because of my walk, my voice, my hair, my smell, whatever, I so know how to work him. I rarely wait for a bartender. I manage to make it to the front of a lot of lines and things in general are given to me by men. I don't want to make it sound like I'm a user or a gold digger because I'm not. These are strangers, doing nice things for me, simply because they find me attractive. Not because I love puppies or hug my mom or read big books. And I find it exhilarating, because it's power and I'm in control.

My Uncle Ed loves to tell the story of the 5-year-old Hannah in the Atlanta airport traipsing up and down a row of traveling businessmen patting each one of them on the knee. They'd simply lean around their Wall Street Journal(s) and smile at the cute little blonde girl. Evidently this went on for an hour or so.

It was probably that sunny, summer day when I first, however subconsciously, realized that if you make them love you, make them want you, you're in control. And control is a very beautiful, very scary thing.

You can kiss my lips, you can cup my breasts, but you will not have power over me. You will not hurt me. I will let you touch me, whisper in my ear, promise me the world, but I will not let you inside. If I orchestrate our dance of strange fingers on sweaty skin, if I control the movements of our music, you can't burn me.

But it's tricky. There have been pure, honest moments when I've let go and felt myself slip into that place. You know the one. The one of your girlhood dreams. The one that's all sticky sweet, cherry-scented and wide open. Infinite space around you - you could run forever in the world where love lives.

But the force that sucks you back into reality is brutal. Mach speed. . .ludicrous speed. . .whack! No more sweet smells or spinning spaces. Just confusion and hurt eyes and failed expectations.

I would do anything to be able to run full force where it's wide open. And I know the only way to get there is to let myself fall, really fall. But you can't control the wide, open spaces. There are no rules there.

I need rules. I need you to know that I never lost myself in you. I didn't leave a little piece of my dreams in the palm of your hand. I didn't. Really.

I was in control.